


Caring is not an advantage

by Antheas_Blackberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Cohabitation, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Worries, Mycroft in Love, Protective Mycroft, yes I refer to Greg as Gregory-sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Lestrade comes down with a run of the mill cold, will he be able to handle Mycroft being such a mother hen, or will it put their relationship to the test?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EventHorizon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/gifts).



> This is for EventHorizon for her generous donation to the Rupert Graves birthday auction. I hope I've been able to fulfil your request well enough. It's taken on legs and gone a bit further than the 1000 words and I do hope it's enjoyed. :)

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had undergone a very long day and was relieved to be heading home. He’d woken up with the start of a cold, much to his dismay. He had ended the day on what was a cut and dried case (he took his victories where he could get them), apart from the fact that the suspect had kicked him rather viciously when he was trying to arrest him. He was sure there was a bruise forming. Sniffling against the persistent tickle in his sinus cavity, he thought about having a nice, hot bath and then a good night’s sleep.

He arrived back at the townhouse where Mycroft was waiting for him. Gregory had called him and explained the situation before he left; not that Mycroft hadn’t been informed the second the suspect touched him. That’s what happened when you were involved in a relationship with the British government. 

By the time he got home, Mycroft had made sure a hot bath was ready and waiting for him the moment he walked in the door. While he soaked away the stresses of the day, Mycroft brought him a cup of tea. 

“Ta, love,” Gregory said, sipping the hot beverage.

Nodding, Mycroft gently examined the purple bruising on his lover’s chest and frowned.

“It’s just a bruise, Mycroft. It’ll heal,” Gregory sniffed.

“I know, Gregory. I do hate to see you hurting or injured.” It was true, Mycroft worried about his partner, especially with his job (and most especially when his brother was involved).

“Are you sure it does not need to be seen to?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look, and Mycroft held up his hands in surrender.

Gregory shifted in the tub, wincing a bit. Mycroft sat down on the edge and began to rub the back of his lover’s neck. Gregory moaned in pleasure and relaxed into the gentle touch. They stayed like that for a few moments, until Gregory suddenly shuddered and his entire body tensed. 

“God bless you, my dear,” Mycroft said, right before Gregory succumbed to the harsh sneeze.

Gregory sniffled wetly. “Thanks,” he murmured. 

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said. “I see your cold has not improved since this morning,” he added, frowning again. He would have offered him a tissue, but it seemed to be a rather ridiculous idea with him being in the bath.

Mycroft worried when his partner didn’t take care of himself. He had seen Gregory ill before, of course, but this was the first time he was under the weather since they had moved in with each other. The civil servant had tried to hide his worries away, but as the pair grew closer, it became more difficult for Mycroft to conceal his true feelings, as well as his anxieties. He tried to lock those feelings away inside, but they always came spilling out somehow, in some form, despite his normally icy façade. Gregory brought out a fierce protective streak within him, one that had been lying dormant for some time.

“Myc, it’s just a sniffle. I’m fine.” He smiled up at his lover.

Rising and turning away, Mycroft rolled his eyes. Of course Gregory would downplay how he was feeling. It was clear to anyone who observed that he was unwell, Mycroft thought as he tidied things away.

The silver haired man made to get out of the tub; the water had cooled. Mycroft fetched him a towel and his robe and got him dried off, careful not to aggravate the bruising. Gregory wanted to chide him for his ministrations, but he also didn’t feel up to a row at the moment, so he let it go for now.

They were soon situated in bed with their tea. Mycroft had his arm around Gregory, doing his best to offer comfort. Suddenly, Lestrade put his tea down and turned to the side, breath hitching as he gasped out a pair of sneezes that tore at the back of his throat.

“God bless you!” Mycroft reached over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the bedside table. “Here you go, dearest.” He kissed him on the forehead, as he tried to dispel his worries over his lover’s obviously worsening cold.

“Thanks,” Gregory said as he wiped and blew his nose gently and then yawned. He was starting to feel a bit run-down, and assumed it was due to his exhausting day. He got comfortable as Mycroft settled in next to him. Normally, Lestrade was the big spoon, but tonight Mycroft took the role of comforter. He put his arm around Gregory and held him tight, as if in doing so, it would remove all ills.

By the next morning, Gregory had developed a wheezing, chesty cough, much to Mycroft’s dismay. This immediately put his anxieties into overdrive, fear pooling in the pit of his stomach. He fetched a packet of cold medicine and a bottle of cough syrup, unsure which his partner would prefer, and brought them over to the ill inspector, who was still in bed.

“Please, my dear. Either one of these should help alleviate your symptoms,” he offered.

Gregory raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine, Mycroft. It’s just a bit of a cold. There’s no reason to worry.”

Mycroft bit his lower lip and studied Gregory, who had begun to cough again. There is plenty to worry about, Mycroft thought. If only you knew.

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand through his sleep mussed silver locks before rising from the bed. He squeezed Mycroft’s arm, trying to reassure the younger man that he was fine. He had work to get on with and dragged himself off in the direction of the shower, pausing a second in an attempt to muffle a vicious sneeze.

“God bless you,” Mycroft said quietly, trying to keep the concern from lacing his words. 

“Mmm. Thanks,” he murmured through a yawn, heading into the en suite.

Mycroft continued to worry his bottom lip, as he heard Gregory coughing again. In that moment, the anxiety took over, a cold sweat breaking out across his forehead, his stomach lurching. He had to tell himself over and over, that it wouldn’t be like before. His hands were clammy and trembling, and he found it difficult to fasten his buttons and cufflinks; it took him twice as long to dress than it normally would have.

When Lestrade was finished, he came out of the en suite towel drying his hair. He found Mycroft adjusting his tie in the mirror, looking pensive. He walked over to Gregory, studying him intently. He brushed Lestrade’s fringe off his forehead, using it as an excuse to check for fever. He hoped his partner was none the wiser to his motivations.

“I do apologise, but I need to leave immediately. The timetable for my meeting has been moved up. Please take care my dear.” He wished he could express his true feelings on the matter. He wished he could beg and plead with Gregory to stay in bed, rest and take care of himself. 

Gregory smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be fine, love,” he said, trying to keep the congestion from appearing in his voice. “Have a good day.”

“And you, dearest,” Mycroft said, returning the kiss. He then headed out of their bedroom and downstairs. Before he left, he slipped a handkerchief, a travel packet of tissues, and a packet of cold medicine into Gregory’s old, battered briefcase. He only hoped it would be enough.

As the day went on, Lestrade felt progressively worse, and despite his annoyance over Mycroft’s motherhenning, he was glad to find the cold medicine in his briefcase, having forgotten to bring some with him. He soldiered on throughout the afternoon, doing his best to ignore the intermittent coughing and sneezing that plagued him. He was also relieved over not being called on a case. It had begun to rain, and the last thing he wanted to be doing was standing around in it. He briefly wondered if Mycroft had something to do with that as well, as he signed his name to yet another bit of paperwork.

Sniffling, he found his nose now completely blocked. He ran a hand across his face and sighed. His breath caught on the end of it and he found himself coughing again, which went on endlessly for minutes. While he was reluctant to give into the illness, he realised that he was doing himself no favours at work, so he packed up his briefcase and headed out of the Yard, paperwork be damned.

When Lestrade arrived home, he found that Mycroft had not yet returned; not surprising, as it was still relatively early. He honestly was glad of it; he was certain that he’d be lectured about not taking care of himself. He had not realised that Mycroft was such a worrier, especially in regards to his health. 

Before they moved in together, whenever he had been ill, he just took some cold medicine and drank a bit more coffee to power through it. Perhaps it was because he had been alone for so long; he wasn’t used to having someone caring for him. Or perhaps Mycroft was right; he wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe he should take more care when he was feeling unwell. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

He tried to think back to the last time he had a cold; it wasn’t a frequent occurrence, so it took some time. He was fairly sure that Mycroft had fussed over him a bit more, but he was not completely sure. They hadn’t moved in with one another at that point, but he vaguely remembered Mycroft showing up with a cup of tea for him because he was in the area.

He had written it off as one of Mycroft’s quirks, but now that he thought about it, the younger man did seem to be a bit more worried and affectionate if he ever mentioned he was feeling a bit off. Lost in his thoughts, he headed into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.


	2. Chapter 2

Gregory made himself comfortable in the study with his tea. He put the telly on and clicked around absently, finally settling on the news. He wasn’t really watching, to be honest. He rubbed at his nose, trying to dispel the incipient tickle that had taken up residence in the last few minutes. It seemed to take an age, but finally he was rewarded with a pair of overly harsh sneezes that bent him over at the waist.

“Goodness! God bless you!” Mycroft was standing in the door of the study, looking worried.

Blushing, Lestrade looked up in embarrassment. “Thanks. Sorry,” he said stuffily.

Mycroft crossed the room and sat down next to his lover on the sofa. He regarded him fondly for a moment, and then handed over his handkerchief. “And God bless you again,” he said, concern filling his voice.

Gregory looked at him, confused, but then quickly understood. He accepted the soft cloth and gasped out another pair of violent sneezes into the folds of the fabric. 

“Thags,” he muttered through the congestion, blowing his nose.

“You are quite welcome,” Mycroft said, trying to quell the rising panic within. Gregory had now begun to cough, rasping wheezy breaths that sounded more and more uncomfortable.

“Oh, dear me, Gregory. Please, let me get you something for that.”

Snuffling into the handkerchief, Lestrade shook his head. “I’m alright,” he said.

Mycroft sighed, exasperated. “My dear, you sound terrible. Please let me be of assistance.” 

“And I said I was fine, Mycroft.” He met his partner’s eyes, defiant.

Mycroft wanted to scream. Didn’t Gregory see what he was doing to himself? He took a deep breath and attempted to keep from shouting. “Then at the very least, please allow me to fix dinner,” he said.

Gregory acquiesced, coughing wheezily again. Mycroft winced at the sound and bit his lip as he rose from the couch and headed into the kitchen. Once there, he splayed his hands out on the counter and took several deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. He told himself over and over that Gregory was fine, that nothing was going to happen. He would not let anything happen. Not again. Not this time.

Mycroft defrosted some chicken soup and put the kettle on to boil. He prepared a tray for them both that included the soup and tea, a bottle of water, as well as cough syrup and a box of tissues for Gregory. Once everything was ready, he took a deep, steadying breath and carried it through to the study.

He found Gregory still coughing abrasively, the sound painful to his ears. Mycroft quickly put the tray down and grabbed the bottle of water and opened it. “Here, try to drink this, slowly now, my dear.” He put a comforting hand on Gregory’s shoulder.

Breathing heavily, Gregory nodded and accepted the water. He took a small sip and it helped ease the dryness of his throat. “Thanks,” he wheezed out, his brown eyes watery with unshed, irritated tears.

Mycroft nodded and gestured to the cough syrup. “I know you said you did not want any, but I hope that you will reconsider.”

Sighing, Gregory relented. He was tired of coughing. He measured out a dose and downed it, chasing it with a mouthful of water.

“Happy now?” He asked, trying and failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“No, Gregory, I am not. I would prefer you to not be under the weather.”

“Sorry, Myc. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know, dear,” Mycroft said, but he was unsure all the same. “Would you like some tea?”

Gregory nodded and picked up a bowl of hot soup, while Mycroft poured out the tea. They sat quietly, eating; the silence punctuated by Gregory’s frequent liquid sniffles and chesty coughs.

When they were finished, Mycroft put everything back on the tray, readying it to take back into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything, dearest?” He asked. “Oh, and God bless you,” he added quickly, seeing the expression change on Gregory’s face.

Gregory looked at him questioningly and then suddenly gave several hitching breaths and sneezed, his sinuses protesting the movement. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the cloth from where he’d left it on his lap and pressed it to his nose. “You know it drives me crazy when you do that,” he said. 

Mycroft did not know. “I am sorry, Gregory. I honestly had no idea.” 

Gregory sighed, but it turned into a yawn. He was suddenly terribly exhausted. He wasn’t in the mood for Mycroft’s mind games, well meaning or otherwise. “I’m going to bed,” he said. 

“G’night,” he mumbled, as he headed out.

“Good night,” Mycroft said to the empty room.

Mycroft felt defeated. Sighing, he picked up the tray and brought it into the kitchen and cleaned up the detritus of their meal. Then, he went into his office and invented things to do, until it was late into the evening.

When Mycroft finally got into bed, he found Gregory’s breathing laboured and wheezy. He kept coughing in his sleep, tossing and turning, and it ripped at Mycroft’s heartstrings. He began to slowly stroke his lover’s back, trying to soothe him. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he settled and fell into a deep sleep. Mycroft laid there a long time, listening to Gregory’s uneven breathing in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft Holmes had always been a vivid dreamer and tonight was no exception. Faces morphed from a face from his past to Gregory’s and swirled around the dreamscape. He bolted upright, with a shout, covered in a cold sweat, breathing heavily.

He must have been calling out in his sleep, because Gregory was sitting up next to him, rubbing his arm. “Hey. You ok?” Gregory broke off to cough, a congested wheezing sound.

Mycroft nodded, not trusting his voice yet. He took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“My apologies for waking you,” he whispered into the dark.

Gregory sniffed. “S’ok,” he yawned and settled back down under the duvet. “Go back to sleep, love,” he murmured sleepily, patting Mycroft’s leg.

Mycroft settled back down under the duvet, but did not fall back to sleep. He listened to Gregory’s arduous breathing as he fought his anxiety and his demons. Finally, he rose from bed and pulled his dressing gown on. Grabbing his mobile phone, he composed several texts as he sat in the armchair that he had pulled close to the bed. From there he watched over the sleeping form of his lover until the sun rose, the light filtering through the slight partition in the curtain.

Mycroft showered and dressed silently as possible. He left a note on the Gregory’s bedside table, along with the cough syrup. He hoped that what he had done was right, but even if it wasn’t, at least he was keeping Gregory safe. 

Before he left, he watched Gregory sleep for a few more minutes, hoping that this would not be the last time he had the privilege to do so. He pressed a soft kiss to Gregory’s forehead, and straightening his waistcoat, left the bedroom.

When Lestrade woke up, it was much later than his usual waking time. Three hours later than normal. He could tell by the light in the room that Mycroft had let him sleep. He blinked, sniffling wetly and suddenly found himself with Sherlock Holmes peering over him intently, like he was a specimen under a microscope, or worse a corpse on a slab in the morgue at Bart’s. He hoped that he didn’t look quite _that_ terrible.

“What the hell? Sherlock?” Lestrade rasped hoarsely, coughing into his fist.

“You’re awake,” Sherlock said.

“Brilliant deduction,” he hissed, breaking into another bout of coughing.

Sherlock flopped back into the armchair that was near the bed, pulling a face. “You sound disgusting.”

“Cheers for that,” he said, sniffling. “What are you doing here?” He asked, although he could venture a pretty good guess.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, scathingly. He did not need to say more. “He did leave a note,” Sherlock added, gesturing towards the bedside table.

Gregory picked up the note and read:

_My dearest Gregory,_

_I do apologise for doing this, but I have arranged for you to have the day off. Please rest and take care of yourself. I have left the cough syrup on the bedside table, and there is cold medicine in the en suite. If you get hungry, there is more soup to be defrosted in the freezer._

_I will try to be home early._

_Yours,  
Mycroft_

Gregory ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. Of all the interfering things that Mycroft could do, this, this was the worst. He was royally pissed off, to be honest.

Yawning, Lestrade swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood and coughed, the harshness of it rubbing his throat raw.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

Gregory wanted to go to the Yard but knowing Mycroft, he probably took his keys with him when he left. Bloody interfering busybody, he thought. Instead he rolled his eyes at Sherlock as he made his way into the en suite.

He exited a few moments later, muffling a pair of violent sneezes into the sleeve of his robe. Sherlock looked over at him and mumbled something that sounded like a blessing, but Lestrade wasn’t entirely sure. Sighing, he jerked his head at Sherlock and then made his way out of the bedroom and downstairs.

Gregory was glad to find that Mycroft had left him a pot of hot coffee; it was probably the least he could do for subjecting him to his brother this early and while he was unwell.

He poured out two mugs of coffee, black with two sugars for Sherlock of course. Coughing congestedly, he sat down at the table and stared at his coffee mug.

“So, tell me. What the hell is up with your brother?”

Sherlock actually threw his head back and laughed.

“Oh, Lestrade,” he said. “My brother is a control freak of the highest order, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Lestrade sighed and rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean! Why’s he being like this? It’s just a cold for heaven’s sake! I’m fine,” he exclaimed before succumbing to another bout of coughing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

“Ok, maybe I could do with some rest, but it should be my choice, Sherlock! What the hell is his problem? Why is he so worried over something as trivial as a cold?”

Sherlock frowned and avoided the question, pausing to take a sip of coffee. A worried look had briefly crossed his face, one that Lestrade couldn’t quite get a read on. That was different, the inspector thought in the silence that followed. 

He was missing something here, something that clearly bothered Sherlock. If it had to do with Mycroft, it must be something big. He thought about this as they quietly drank their coffee until Sherlock broke the peace that had descended.

“Mycroft believes that caring is not an advantage. Have you ever wondered why?” 

Sherlock drained his mug, and flicking up the collar of his Belstaff, he flounced out the door, leaving Gregory to his thoughts.

After Sherlock left, he made himself some toast and then got comfortable in the study. In all honesty, he was feeling pretty miserable. His head and sinuses ached considerably and it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t at work with all the coughing and sneezing he was doing. He just wished that he had had a say in the matter. 

He spent the afternoon alternating between napping and watching rubbish telly, trying to quell the boredom. He _almost_ wished Sherlock had bothered to stay.

Mycroft found Gregory in the study asleep, when he arrived home mid-afternoon. He frowned at the pile of tissues strewn across the coffee table. To him, Gregory didn’t look or sound any better. His breathing was still laboured; he was wheezing as he slept.

He placed a gentle kiss on Gregory’s forehead, pleased to find him not fevered. Gregory stirred at the touch, and Mycroft smiled, brushing the fringe off his forehead with gentle fingers. Mycroft heard the tempo of his partner’s breath change, and he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into Gregory’s hands. It would no doubt be softer than the tissues he had been using, he thought. 

Gregory blinked, momentarily confused at Mycroft’s presence. He was barely aware of him pressing something into his hands. Momentarily dazed, he was unable to break from the fog he was in, barely cognisant of the prickling within his nose that swiftly developed into a pair of harsh sneezes.

“Good heavens! God bless you, Gregory!”

It took the detective inspector a few moments to blow his nose and wake up fully. “Thanks,” he finally managed to murmur.

“How are you feeling?” 

Gregory shrugged. Now that the fog had lifted, his irritation about this morning was quickly returning.

“Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea? Perhaps some soup?” Mycroft asked gently, trying not to let his worry show in his voice. Gregory’s breathing sounded terrible, and it intensified the fear that had been pooling in his stomach, gnawing at him for two days.

For some reason, this was the last straw; Gregory snapped. “I’m fine, Mycroft! And I was fine this morning. There was no reason to call me out of work. You had no right to make that decision for me,” Gregory shouted, ignoring the protests of both his aching chest and raw throat at the vocalisation. 

“I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions for myself, thank you very much,” he added before he began to cough again, a harsh barking sound that had Mycroft wincing from the sound. He had to restrain himself from reaching out towards his partner.

Mycroft was astounded at Gregory’s reaction. Did he not understand that he was trying to take care of him, protect him? Didn’t Gregory know how much he loved him? How could he not know he would do absolutely anything for him? 

Stunned, he pulled himself together, and rose to his full height, straightening his waistcoat. “I am sorry, Gregory. I see that I have made a mistake. Please accept my apology. It will not happen again,” he said icily, trying to hide his fears and emotions behind his Iceman persona.

Close to breaking, after a night of no sleep and excessive worry, Mycroft walked out of the room. He slowly walked up the stairs and into their bedroom, unsure of what to do. He did not have a lot of experience in this area, but he figured it was safe to assume that it was over between Gregory and himself.

That was the last thing that he wanted. He loved Gregory with every fibre of his being and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with him. 

And now, now he was afraid it was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft sat on the bed and stared off into space. He knew that deep down, he should have gotten over this a long time ago. And he did to an extent, by locking himself away from emotions and relationships for two decades and becoming the Iceman. 

He was rather surprised that Sherlock hadn’t told Gregory; he normally couldn’t wait to insult him. But then, it was the closest thing the two of them had to a silent agreement; Sherlock and Redbeard and he and Andrew. 

And then he met Gregory and his world changed.

 

Gregory swore at himself. He knew deep down that Mycroft meant well, that he didn’t mean to mollycoddle him. He coughed harshly and frowned. And, not to mention, Mycroft was right. He _really_ wasn’t feeling very well. He just didn’t want to admit it to himself. He put his head in his hands.

After a few long minutes, Gregory pulled himself to his feet and headed upstairs.

He found Mycroft in their bedroom, sitting on the bed, staring at his hands.

“Love, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” the older man sniffed.

Mycroft looked up at Gregory who was shocked at what he saw. He gasped, seeing the tears swimming in Mycroft’s eyes.

“What’s wrong? Myc, talk to me, please?” Gregory pleaded, sitting down on the bed. He kept his distance for the moment, despite wanting to wrap Mycroft in his arms. 

Mycroft sighed deeply. The time had come to finally tell his story.

“When I was much younger, I worked for MI-6. When I was a young agent, I met someone and we grew close. His name was Andrew.”

“I was about to go undercover in Eastern Europe. Back then; mobile phones weren’t as readily available, especially in that part of the world. It would have been extremely suspicious had I had one with me, so contact with 6, with anyone really, was limited, if not impossible. Right before I left, Andrew had caught cold. We both thought it was nothing. I did not give it a second thought when I left for my assignment,” Mycroft took another deep breath before he continued on.

“When I arrived home two months later, there were no messages from Andrew, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. He knew I would be gone for some time. I began to unpack and then there was a knock at my door. I figured it was he, and I went to let him in. It was not him; it was a mutual friend of ours and she told me Andrew was dead,” Mycroft said, his voice breaking.

“Oh love,” Gregory said. “I’m so sorry.” He reached out and put his arm around Mycroft and pulled him close. “Would you tell me what happened?” He turned his head and muffled a chesty cough into his shoulder.

Mycroft nodded, pausing to sniff and then wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Gregory reluctantly pulled away for a moment and reached behind him. He grabbed the box of tissues, moving it close to hand, and pressed one into his partner’s hand.

“Thank you, my dear. And yes, I will tell you what happened. I believe I owe you that much,” he said softly, wiping at his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

Mycroft nodded, and continued on. “Andrew had gone home to visit his parents. They lived in a small village in Sussex. While he was there, he had begun to feel worse, and went to a small clinic there. The doctor was inexperienced and told him it was just a cold and to rest and drink fluids. Over the next twenty-four hours, his conditioned deteriorated rapidly. He was terribly ill, and spiked a very high fever. His parents became concerned when he began to hallucinate and intermittently lost consciousness. They got a neighbour to help them, got him in the car, and drove him to Brighton, to hospital. His fever is still the highest ever recorded there at over 41 degrees. He fell into a coma and died that evening from blood poisoning.” Mycroft sniffed and dabbed at his nose with the tissue. He took a moment, pulling himself together.

Gregory wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s lithe frame. ‘’I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry,” he murmured into Mycroft’s hair. He was starting to understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him earlier; about why Mycroft felt that caring wasn’t an advantage.

No wonder Mycroft felt that way for so long, he thought. Gregory was beginning to realise that Mycroft must have been alone a lot longer than he had thought; they had never really discussed it. Mycroft knew all about his cheating ex-wife, obviously, but they had never sat down and talked about their ex’s. Mycroft was private about many things, so he had never pushed him to talk. 

He had hoped that he had broken through Mycroft’s icy exterior. And then it occurred to him. _He had._

All the things that Mycroft had done for him for the past few days; bringing him soup and tea and tissues and the care package in his briefcase, even blessing him before he had managed to get a sneeze out! Mycroft did it all because he loved him and cared for him. _He_ had become the exception to ‘caring is not an advantage!’ 

Gregory took his hand and held it, rubbing his thumb across the top. Mycroft squeezed back. “I was worried that our relationship was over,” the younger man said.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “It was just a fight, Myc. Yeah, I’m a bit annoyed, but it’s not worth throwing all of this way, everything we have together.” 

“I am very glad to hear that, my dear.” Mycroft visibly relaxed and the pair settled back on the bed.

After a few quiet moments, Mycroft spoke. “Gregory? How are you feeling, really?”

“Better, now that you’re here,” he said. 

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look, arching an eyebrow.

“Seriously? It’s really just this cough. I probably should have taken the cough syrup, huh?”

“That would have been a wise decision,” Mycroft said, his voice catching. An odd look crossed Mycroft’s face as he succumbed to a damp sounding sneeze.

“Oh, bless you love!” Gregory exclaimed as the realisation sank in.

“Thank you, Gregory. My apologies.” Mycroft swiped at his nose with the crumpled tissue he was still holding. 

They sat quietly for a moment, until the older man could no longer keep from coughing. Once the spasm had settled down, he turned to his lover.

“Myc?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m sorry I gave you my cold.”

The two were quiet for a moment. When their eyes finally met again, they both burst out laughing, the tension finally broken.

Coughing again, Gregory pulled Mycroft close again. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll take care of you,” he whispered.


	5. Epilogue

_One week later_

 

The pair learned a lot about each other over the following week. Mycroft finally accepted that Gregory preferred not being fussed over or coddled while he was ill. He accepted this and resolved to keep his coddling to a minimum for the next time. Because of Mycroft, Gregory began to accept that a little TLC never hurt anyone. He also realised that he did indeed need to take better care of himself.

Gregory learned that an ill Mycroft liked a good cuddle and didn’t like to be left alone. There were still too many memories of the past that he needed to learn to deal with and move on from. For now, Gregory was willing to cuddle up with Mycroft on the sofa and watch old films or the news, even if one or both of them ended up falling asleep.

In the end, Mycroft ended up with a _horrific_ cold. It went directly into his sinuses; he suffered from frequent and violent sneezing fits and relentless sinus pressure and pain. He ended up coming home from the office a day into the illness with a wretched sinus headache that developed into a migraine. Unfortunately for Mycroft, it lasted for well over 24 hours.

It was most unbearable for both of them when Mycroft was suffering from the migraine, as Mycroft wanted but couldn’t handle being touched; he was so over sensitive. Gregory felt helpless but did what he could; fetching ice packs, water, and tissues, until he got fed up with the situation and called John to have a look at him. He was that worried about his ill lover. For once, Sherlock wisely stayed away.

Despite still not feeling entirely well, Mycroft was insistent on his plans for the day. He arranged for a car and asked Gregory to accompany him, but did not give a reason or a destination. Gregory went without argument, but was a mixture of concerned and intrigued.

They drove in silence for some time; Gregory looked out the window, while Mycroft attended to some much over due work. Suddenly, Mycroft pitched forward in a flurry of vicious sneezes that went on for so long that Gregory nearly asked the driver to turn around. Gregory put a steady hand on Mycroft’s back and quickly pulled his own handkerchief out and pressed it into his partner’s hand. 

“Christ, Mycroft! _Bless_ you!”

It took Mycroft a moment to compose himself, blowing his nose. “Thank you, Gregory. Please do excuse me,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. 

“Are you ok?” Gregory asked worriedly, studying the younger man intently.

Mycroft gently dabbed at his long nose. “I am fine; just a minor irritation, my dear,” he sniffed, returning to his mobile.

Unconvinced, Gregory raised both eyebrows in disbelief. If that was a minor irritation, he would hate to see what something _major_ was like, he thought. He hoped that this outing wouldn’t cause Mycroft to have a setback. He resumed looking out the window.

Soon the car slowed and then came to a stop. Mycroft slipped his mobile into his pocket and picked up his umbrella before they both excited the car. 

They were in a cemetery; Gregory was not in the least bit surprised to where they had driven. Mycroft took his hand and led him down a path. At least Mycroft had picked a decent day, the older man thought; he sun was bright and the sky was clear.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until they were standing in front of a grave. It was clean and shiny; clearly it had been recently installed. 

“I recently had the headstone replaced,” Mycroft said, answering the unasked question. “His parents recently passed away and I felt I could finally give his grave the marker of respect that he deserved.” His hand tightened on the handle of his umbrella, his knuckles white.

“You bribed someone?” Gregory asked incredulously.

Mycroft chuckled, relaxing visibly for the first time since they had set foot in the car.

“No, merely a small donation to the right cause,” Mycroft said.

Gregory nodded, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “D’you want a moment alone?” He asked, nodding toward the gravestone.

Mycroft thought for a moment. Normally, he would have come to make sure that his instructions had been followed. However, since being with Gregory, he had started to become so _sentimental_. 

Looking over at Gregory, he nodded, and walked over to the monument.

Mycroft stood there quietly for a few minutes, his thoughts racing. He was unaccustomed to standing at gravestones, and was uncertain of the protocol. Finally, he took a breath and began to speak quietly.

“I always meant to come again, to visit before now, Andrew. After the first time, I found that I could no longer find the words.” Mycroft quickly wiped a tear away. In fact, he found it impossible to return after his first visit.

“The amount of guilt that I felt, that I carried with me, lasted for a very long time.” Mycroft looked down at his hands, which were wrapped around the handle of his umbrella.

“I isolated myself; power and control became my lover. After you died, I believed that caring was not an advantage, that alone protected me.” He sighed heavily. He had made many mistakes, and had wasted so much time. He had Gregory to thank for that realisation. 

“I was wrong. Alone does not protect me. And it certainly does not make me a better man. But now, it is time to leave the past in the past.”

He removed a small, polished stone from his pocket, and put it on top of the gravestone. And then with a final nod, he turned and walked away, his umbrella tapping on the pavement.

He joined Gregory and took his hand in his. He squeezed it, and felt his partner do the same in return. And then, together, they walked back to the car, ready for the next chapter of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have come to the end of the tale. Thank you everyone for your comments and kudos; they have been appreciated and most welcome. Perhaps there will be a follow up story in the future.


End file.
